


Fitted Together to a Tea

by noblealice



Category: Fillmore!
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblealice/pseuds/noblealice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set 15-ish years in the future, making every character in their late twenties. Ingrid is a new detective and is visited by someone from her past.</p><p>General spoilers for both seasons with specific references made to "A Wurm in Our Midst", “Red Robin”, “Links In a Chain of Honour”, "Of Slain Kings on Checkered Fields" and "Masterstroke Of Malevolence".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fitted Together to a Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unrequitedangst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequitedangst/gifts).



> Every year I make a promise of 'this will be the year I will get my fic beta'd by someone else other than my Mother'! Then time flashes by and I'm left editing at the last moment and I apologize for all mistakes that may be left in this fic.

**PROLOGUE: STRAINED SILENCE**

Their screwed up friendship doesn’t exactly work anymore; hasn't since either of them had started dating and the arguments started. People never did understand why they spent so much time together. But it's never been as bad as this.

Tonight they had crossed the line between colleagues and lovers, shattering their friendship for the promise of something new, something better. She's ecstatic, limbs light with hope and a bit too much beer. When he kisses her, she feels like she's floating. It feels so good to be held like this, after countless missions where they have to pretend. It's real and she loves it.

She loves him.

He pauses - silently searching her face with desperate eyes, asking for absolution or forgiveness or for her just to tell him something that sounds like it was all a joke.

It was a mistake and she bites down on her lip, hoping that somehow it would make her words go unheard, erased, forgotten. Her only response is to press her lips against his with more force. She closes her eyes for the rest of the night, not wanting to see that expression on his face ever again.

His rhythm doesn’t change and she tries to return to the moment. When she feels like she's getting close, like the sensation of loving him will consume her, he stops and shifts to his side. He keeps his face to her back as he aligns his legs with hers and because she knows him, she knows it’s so he can hide from her.

His arms no longer feel safe or carefree and it's because they are heavy with the implications of her confession. He’s the one wrapped around her, but she’s not the one who feels trapped.

With the hangover the next morning comes the guilt that had threatened her last night and she sneaks out in the cold, half-light of dawn, wincing as she bumps into his desk while searching for her clothes.

She stubs her toe against his briefcase just before she reaches the door but by now she doesn’t have to worry about waking him; the practiced rhythm of his mock snores haven’t changed since her first whispered curse at his furniture. He's probably been awake and faking it for the last half hour. It looks like he’s going to play the same game again and ignore this thing between them.  Stick with what he knows.

The plane tickets are still sticking out of her pocket from when she'd lifted them from his jacket last night. It was a flirtatious joke, a way to get him to press up against her as she held them behind her back. She smooths them out and replaces them in his pea coat. If last night proved anything, it was that nothing could make Fillmore stay. Not even a last-ditch proclamation of love. He was leaving her behind and she would just have to keep on breathing.

She squints in the morning sun as she leaves his college dorm, shoes held by the straps in her right hand. She tries hard not to commit any of the details to memory - heartbreak is hard enough to get over without photograph-crisp images in her memory.  


 

  **ACT ONE: REUNITING THE TEA-M**

It had gotten harder to do the right thing after leaving college. There were higher stakes than spelling bees and larger consequences than middle school mascots. She watched families evicted from their homes unjustly, she watched children starve on the street and as much as she wanted to help every stray pup that wandered past, she was paying the mortgage on the small, run-down duplex she lived in with her father, her niece and whoever her sister was dating that month.

She may have been able to memorize and recite the rulebook paragraph by paragraph, but had never been able to _live_  it. Real life always seemed to mess up the equations with its variables. Despite her cynicism, she was promptly promoted through the ranks until she was the youngest person ever to go from a rookie beat cop to a fully-fledged detective.

She trusted the rule book to guide her but she had always known that sometimes to get results, you need to throw the book away. She understood why people tried to skirt the system that screwed with them. She may have helped some of them out, risking her neck in the process.

Unfortunately, by the time she was a detective with some high-profile cases under her belt and a worn-down desk in the centre of the bullpen, all her compassion had earned her was a heartburn prescription and frown lines around her lips.

Two years behind the desk and she can’t remember when she stopped feeling like she was on the side of fairness or when justice started looking like revenge. She thinks she would have continued down this bitter path had it not been for Clementina, the one punk kid she couldn’t reform.

She’d lost track of him after Middle School and had hoped that when she saw him again it wouldn’t be through a one-way mirror. Clementina started with petty thefts and small con games and hadn't moved very far. He didn’t take life seriously and she enjoyed the banter when they sat him down for questioning. Their easy back-and-forth lasted until he was brought in bleeding.

She found it hard to joke after his first assault charge.

She remembers lecturing him in a small plastic chair to change his ways if he didn’t want to suffer their bad coffee and stale donuts again. His bark of a pity laugh hovered in the air a moment too long before it dropped to the floor, leaving the room empty.

After he left, she had stared at her faded reflection in the glass opposite the interrogation room, wondering where this tired woman came from. Her black hair had remained cropped short throughout her life, barely brushing against her chin to save time with styling. The only flourish of makeup her morning schedule allowed was her favourite midnight eyeliner to add definition to her favourite feature.

(Someone long ago had once told her that she had beautiful eyes and she could never forget it.)

The loud clang of her phone startled her out of her reverie. “Third.” She clipped, brisk and ready for whatever the other end of the other line held for her.

“You really need to assign personalized ringtones to your friends. Just once I’d like to hear you greet me with ‘hello’.”

She relaxed her shoulders, not even realizing how tense they had gotten until hearing her friend’s voice.

“Karen, this is a bit early for you isn’t it?” Throughout their decade’s long friendship, Karen Tehama had never awoken earlier than strictly necessary and worked hard to rise in her field of forensic science to the point that she could choose her own hours. As a private consultant she could achieve results faster than any police department lab.

“Evidence never sleeps.”

Looking at the stack of paperwork waiting for her, Ingrid sighed. “I know the feeling.”

“So.... have you, um, read the paper today?”

“You don’t have to tiptoe around it. I was the one who worked the crime scene.”

Tehama muttered a curse on the other side. “Why put yourself through that?

“I don’t know. To prove that I could handle it?” Ingrid fiddled with the crap that cluttered her desk, the large sombrero-wearing-gargoyle a hold-over from more carefree days.

This time it was Tehama’s turn to sigh. “What’s the final report?”

“Apparently Clementina was  _visiting family_  in Brooklyn but unless  _family_  goes by the name of a .45 calibre pistol, the people we spoke to are lying or were lied to.”

“Not hard to believe considering those people probably worked for the Hosta’s.”

“I should have had him tailed. He kept dropping hints that he was swimming with bigger fish now, bragging about the new leather jacket I scuffed up the last time I cuffed him.”

“You can’t have known.”

“Well, by the two bullets the coroner pulled from his shoulder, we can assume that one of his deals had finally gone wrong.”

“Worst part is, you probably can’t pin anything on the Hosta’s, I’ve consulted on a case they were suspected in and they’re always clean as a whistle.”

“No, the worst part is that he’ll never complain about the station’s coffee again.”

She could hear Tahoma shift on the other end, probably choosing her words carefully before continuing. When she broke the silence her voice was soft. “You got too close to this one, hun. That’s not like you.”

Ingrid ignored it, changing the subject. She really didn’t want to examine why she was so upset about a link from her shared past with her old partner. “We still on for Cheese And Chess next week? It’s your turn to treat.”

“I could’ve sworn I paid it last time.”

“Are you really going to argue with the lady with the photographic memory?”

“Call me an optimist; I always hope that this time will be the time you’ll slip up.” Tehama laughed into the phone and Ingrid tried to force a smile.

The truth was, she felt anything but optimistic as she read over the funeral arrangements twice, repeated the names of Clementina’s family members that were now mourning the loss of a brother, a son, a nephew.

It was times like this when she would bury herself in work. She had calls to make and a dozen forms fill out and multiple hoops to jump through to get the video surveillance tapes from the convenience store on 5th. She barely looked up when a veggie wrap from the deli across the street landed on her desk. She merely continued working while she chewed, ignorant of the plans the universe had for her.

(If she had known, she would have called in sick that day.)

However, the universe rarely waits for anyone and she had no time to prepare herself when her past walked in with a purposeful stride. He approached the reception desk and she overheard that he was looking for someone. Upon hearing her name from his lips she wasn’t sure that girl still existed, despite seeing a faint glimpse of her every time she looked in a mirror.

Time had changed her and it was one of the reasons that she had always turned down the invitations of promotion. The swimming pool of the FBI was too small for her taste, she preferred to work where her chances of seeing him again were like the state lotto.

She had no idea that her numbers were up.  


 

 **ACT TWO: BREW-TAL HONESTY**

His name had floated around the precinct for years; he was becoming as well-known as an urban legend; a curse that was brought down to the streets when a case went bad. Of course, that shit’s only powerful if you put faith in it and she’d spent five long years smashing that belief to bits.

Third?” Suddenly, she was looking up into a hopeful face, with a mouth sharp from curiosity and with shoulders more broad than when she had last seen him. His typical outfit that she always pictured him in was replaced by the new wardrobe of an up-and-coming agent. In his dark suit and crisp tie, he looked a dozen feet taller. She noted that he still kept his head shaved close and his eyes were obscured by the same glasses. With his brilliant smile directed at her, she could almost believe it was still  _him_.

So when an older, deeper voice carried across to her desk, she jumped with surprise. “Ingrid, is that you?”

It was with a barely audible squeak that she replied to his summons, shocked by his miraculous appearance. “Cornelius? What are you doing here?”

Last she had heard, Cornelius Fillmore was with the Feds. A cool brain like his deserved to be tested under pressure and the strength he exuded now showed just how much he enjoyed the thrill.

He picked up the newspaper that she had folded to the Obituaries. "Did even know he was in the game until I ran some prints a few months back and he popped up in the system."

"I thought we'd gotten through to him, too."

"His mother remembered me. Called me last night. Wants me to work the case. It's standard procedure to give notice to anyone that could ruin a sting if they recognised me."

She held a hand to her forehead, feeling a migraine coming on. “I don't what's worse; that you’re going undercover with the Hosta’s or this is your way of telling me. Do you know how dangerous they are? They’re the number one crime family of the city!”

“Yeah, and they’re in your backyard, its common courtesy to let the local precinct know.”

“With an email or something! What if someone saw you come in here? You could be jeopardizing the whole operation with your _common courtesy_!”

“Don’t worry. I will be unrecognizable by the time I walk the streets.”

“You always had a knack for blending in.”

“The way I remember it, you blended in right along with me.”

Ingrid cleared her throat at the approach of one of her mentors. Cunningham was well into his fifties, but had never held her youth against her. He was overly jovial and clumsy in a way that reminded her of Danny O'Farrel. He walked, clearly in awe. “Whoa, the Boogeyman!”

Fillmore stiffened, his words coming out clipped and tense. “I’m not big on nicknames.”

Cunningham was a fine detective, but completely oblivious to social cues and continued to steamroll through their conversation. Ingrid could just barely hide her smile as she watched Fillmore get more and more uncomfortable.

“Wow, this is an honour. What’s the occasion? We got a kidnapper her? Or a serial killer? Man, you are _big news_. Can’t wait to tell my wife who was in the office today. She’ll never believe it!”

He dug around in his pocket, “Ingrid, take a picture of us!”

When he saw her face he finally seemed to realize this was your average social call and his expression turned to one of distrust and suspicion.

“Wait, are you stealing our prodigy out from under us?” With his hands on his hips, he had never looked more ridiculous and she felt pity for him, reaching up to place her hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Rob.”

“No, it’s not. Ingrid, you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

Fillmore interjected, probably realizing that if he didn't say something soon, he'd be ducking Rob's left fist. “We used to be partners.”  
Cunningham's smile was back in a flash, his awe transferred now to her. “No kidding! This is priceless! You recruiting her for a long-term op? She won’t do them for us, even when the Chief threatened her pension.”

He laughed like it was the most hilarious thing he'd heard that day.

“Hey, I got you all the names in Mr. Friedberg’s ledger – in under a week!”

“Exactly, imagine how much you’d get in a year.”

All her previous affection for Cunningham evaporated. “I don’t go undercover anymore.” She crosser her arms defensively. “Leave it, Cunningham.”

“Yikes, I got it. Hey, Bogeyman, do you know what the deal with our mysterious Ingrid is? Not even the local quack can get a read on her, her psych eval came back inconclusive!” He laughed, clutching his sides and Ingrid wondered what the world would be like if everyone found him as funny as he found himself.

“She was always a mystery to me.”

“Ha. The only one you couldn’t solve, huh?”

She could feel Fillmore’s eyes on her, hating how his proximity made her feel.

“Excuse us, Cunningham. We’ve got dinner reservations to get to.”

Taking her cue, Fillmore made a show of checking his watch until the senior detective left. He waited for her to grab her coat but he seemed like he wanted to say something. She couldn’t bear whatever excuse he made now, so she simply filled the walk from the precinct to her favourite greasy spoon diner with chatter about her career.

Not ones to shy away from grisly details, they caught up on one another’s exploits without censure. To them, the only topic that still held a taboo was any reference to a night of tipsy karaoke followed by hungry lips and fingers on threadbare cotton sheets. No reference is made to that forbidden morning, when she had awoken with a pounding headache and the glare of a plane ticket that would never fade and when it sunk in that even after last night, he still wasn’t going to stay. There is no hint at how she skipped out before the rest of the farewell party arrived and was gone before his flight departed

Ingrid had hoped for a more distinct sign of aging on him, but as she observed him eat, she noted that there were no gray hairs since he’d lost that silly goatee from college. As he talked, she had a craving to see the expression of his eyes without his glasses as a shield. The need scratched at the back of her chest, she had never needed more than the tone of his voice to understand him and she felt out of her depth. They used to be of practically one mind, and she never had to guess what his expression hid, but that was before and now his mind is a dark shadow.

When she got home, she avoided all questions from Ariella about why she’d been out so late and curled up in bed more tired than she had felt in months.

The next morning, she saw Fillmore slowly approach her desk and left to collect herself in the bathroom. She splashed water on her face before she straightened her shoulders, her back ramrod straight as she strode back to her desk.

She wasn’t shocked to find her chair occupied, but frowned at the way his long limbs sprawled out in ownership.

“I thought you’d be knee-deep with the Hosta’s by now.”

“One last unfinished case.” She waited for more clarification, knowing how he loved to draw his explanations out.

“You know how I hate to leave things –“

“Unresolved?” She finished for him with a bit more bite than she would have liked. Still, a small part of her was pleased that he at least had the decency to look down like he might have been embarrassed.

“Got anywhere more private for a chat?”  
She pulled him into a spare room with a faded sign reading “spare chairs, broken shelves and misplaced file depository.”

“Thought I could use your expertise on this case, as you have connections with the family.” He opened up his briefcase and took out a manilla folder. After scanning the first page she stared, open-mouthed at him in disbelief.

“Robert Chestnut? Are you crazy? You  _tried_  to bust him straight out of the Academy and he was as clean as a newborn. Isn’t this a little long to hold a grudge?"

Fillmore turned from her face, running a finger along the dusty shelf. “Still defending the family I see.”

“I have every reason to! They participate in the community, donate to charities and Robert and I were close friends in college. He has actual hobbies, y’know? And he didn’t mind when people were curious in them.”

“Just friends?” He sneered, and she hated how much meaning was loaded into his tone. However, she was determined to continue unfazed, brushing off his insinuation with indifference. He had no right to sound jealous, no right to make her feel small.  
“Look, the whole family is dysfunctional, I’ll give you that. Seth is probably rotten to the core, but he’s not capable of what you’re accusing the whole family of.”

“Are you sure that’s not your bias creeping in?”

She sent him a glare that would have a lesser man’s knee’s shaking. “I think that of the two of us, I have the better track record for keeping emotions separate from a case.”

“Not that that’s saying much.”

She snatched the file out of his hand. “Do you even want my input? If you decide the answer to that is yes, you’ll have to keep up. I don’t have the luxury of a federal expense account like the one I’m sure you’re supplied with at the Bureau.”

“So where do you suggest we start?”

“Hmmmm, this is a big ticket item. It’d be hard to lift to without inside-access and since I haven’t heard about it on the news, it’s probably from a private collection.”

She continued speed-reading through his notes. “It looks here like it wasn’t a smash job or a big team. Suspect is probably someone methodical with a lot of patience; this wasn’t about the thrill of the risk.”

Something in the back of her memory clicked. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Barely able to keep the door from slamming into him, he raced after her. “Where are we going?”

“Our first stop.”

 **ACT THREE: STEEPED IN SUSPICION**

Ingrid had already dialled the number before the cab door closed. She held it between them and waited for the person at the other end to pick up.

"Nicky? Got time for a chat?"

“For you, Ingrid? Always. What’s that noise?”

“Traffic. You’re on speaker phone right now."

"And we’re in a bit of a rush.”

“That can't be who I think it is!”

“No time for Memory Lane, Nick. We need you to concentrate.”

"You always were all business, man. I'd tell you to lighten up, but I know you'd never listen. So what can I do for you?"

Fillmore leaned over to speak into the phone. "What do you know about the Chestnuts?"

"Enough to know not to run in their circle."

"But you know people who do, right? People who might fence certain hot items to certain wealthy buyers?

"Personally, I am above such connections. But I _may_ have heard whispers of liberators of priceless works from certain personal collections, but I wouldn’t know how to contact anyone."

Ingrid batted Fillmore's hand away, motioning to him to back off."Of course Nicky, forget him, he left his manners back home. The reason I wanted to talk to you was about the Solanki tea set."

"Ah! A masterpiece! You still know your art!"

They continued to chat peaceably about the collection for the next fifteen minutes of the drive, ending the call only after Ingrid promised three times to visit his gallery again soon.

She jumped out of the cab, leaving Fillmore to pay for the fare.He had a scowl on his face when he caught up with her. "So did that have any point other than to boost your ego?"

"I’m surprised you didn’t catch it. I found it very illuminating. Especially how he reacted when I brought up the museum gala next month. The hosts are Margaret and Chris Palino." When he didn't react, she continued. "Formerly Margaret Chestnut."

"Dog, you’re right. We should talk to them."He flipped his phone open and began typing furiously.

She pulled on his arm. "Fillmore, we're already here."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed."

She merely rolled her eyes. "Save your charm for Margaret."

With a flash of their badges they were seated in the Palino parlour room within minutes.

"This is a lovely photo. Your husband hasn't changed much."

"You know Chris?"

"From three years ago. When I arrested him. He had a pretty extensive gambling debt, didn't he? Seemed to disappear when you two got married."

Fillmore turned to look at her. "Really? That's interesting, normally a favour like that tends to inspire _gratitude_ in a person."

Their hosts lips pursed. "I know what you're implying, but Chris isn't involved with my family. He promised at our wedding. He walked away from the tracks and never looked back."

Her hand shook as she set down her mug of coffee. "You don't have to believe me. But you'll believe our accountant when you call the banks. We've been paying that off debt for the last two years. I took a job as a teacher and I don't even speak with my brothers anymore."

"Are we expected to believe that?" He stood up quickly, knocking one of the figurines from the coffee table to the floor.Ingrid also rose to her feet, putting a constraining hand on his arm, firmly gripping him. "I think it's time we leave now." She walked out of the room, apologizing to Mrs. Palino as she collected their coats. She knew he would follow her outside and just hoped he'd keep whatever he wanted to say until then.

She waited on the sidewalk while he paced, clearly working through this latest development.

"Fillmore, I hate to say it, but it’s beginning to look like the Chestnut’s might not have anything to do with this case."

"We can't know for sure."

"No-one can know anything for sure."

He stopped pacing and snapped his fingers. "We need to talk to the Solanki family."

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Your file said they were already questioned."

"Our agents had the same idea as you, thought it was an inside job. No one brought up the last senator's election."

"There was an investigation over the Chestnut's involvement and no evidence of foul play was ever found, Fillmore. It was national news!"

"An investigation by people whose salary is paid for by Chestnut Senior!"

"Are you saying you want to re-open the case?""I'm saying that there are more possibilities that were discounted. There must be other motives than money to steal an heirloom like this."

"It's got a colourful history, maybe someone wanted it to be on display?"

"Nah, you can't bag an item with that type of price-tag and expect to donate it somewhere for posterity. What if we were supposed to suspect the Chestnut's?"

"Wait, are you saying that someone stole the Solanki tea set to _frame_ the Chestnut's?" She sent him a worried look. "I'm starting to get whiplash here, Fillmore. Are they guilty or not?"

"I'm not writing off the possibility of their involvement, something still smells rotten. But they're a distracting scape-goat. You said it yourself, they made national news."

"But your agents couldn't find evidence of an inside job. We're back at square one."

"Not entirely."

They were back at the precinct, hovering over Ingrid's old laptop. "Okay, so everyone's alibi was cleared for that night, right?"  
"Yeah, but the campaign manager was acting really strange."

Her fingers flew over the keyboard, "He's not the campaign manager anymore, look at this." She pointed to a news article on her screen. "He quit soon after and by the way he's dressed I'd say he's just come into money. That Rolex is real."

"You can tell that from a pixelated photograph?"

"Ariella dates a lot of cheap guys, you tend to figure out what's a fake very fast around them."

"He was certainly anxious when we were investigating, but we had no motive."

"Let's see what we can find after we dig around in his financials."

Four hours and two lukewarm sodas from the vending machine down the hall and Ingrid and Fillmore shared a high-five. "I know I probably shouldn't be this excited about some creep embezzling campaign funds, but this gives him a motive and gives us enough for a warrant." She was exhausted, but Ingrid felt satisfied with a job well done. It wasn't something she had felt in awhile and she smiled up at Fillmore in thanks.

"I still feel like we're missing some key component. How did Mr. Pencil-pusher get the guts to steal the tea set?""Having the mafia on your back is a pretty motivating--wait, what's this account?" Ingrid highlighted three deposits that occurred last month.

Fillmore pushed up his glasses to take a closer look and flashed her a smile. “Disco.”  


 **EPILOGUE: A CUPPA O'FRIENDS**

Karen jumped up with an excited squeal from where she was sitting at the usual booth she shared with Ingrid when she saw her old friends enter holding hands. “What’s this? If I’d known it was going to be a reunion I would have called the boys and invited them along too."

Fillmore braced himself for her hug and chuckled into her embrace, grinning at Ingrid behind Karen's back. "Hello to you, too."

Ingrid slide into the booth and started mopping up the spill Karen caused by being too excited. "Tehama, isn’t Tony overseas covering some breaking news story for Reuters? And now that I think of it, it might be hard to get in touch with Vallejo while he's on his international fishing tour. If I remember correctly, he's in Iceland this week."

Fillmore looked impressed. "Do you keep tabs on everyone?"

She smirked at him over the plastic menu. "Just the ones who return my Christmas cards."

"I think I can manage that this year. I might have an actual address you can send it to."

Karen looked shocked that they were actually conversing and nothing heavy and breakable had been thrown yet. "What happened to the undercover gig with the Hosta’s?"  
He turned to her, frowning. “Technically you shouldn’t know about that.”She levelled him with what Ingrid called her 'disapproving-mom-face'. " _Technically_ , you owe me five years worth of birthday and Christmas gifts so I'd be pretty thankful that you're going to get away with just paying for this month's tab at Cheese And Chess."  
Fillmore laughed, hands raised in mock defence. “I guess I deserve that."

"I got a good friend to fill in for me with the Hosta's. With what we know now about their connections to the Chestnut's it should be a piece of cake getting enough to nail a conviction. You turn people like them against one another and they're all about saving their own necks."

"What's he's forgetting to mention is that since his old partner, Wade, hasn’t been on the local news channel in the last forty-eight hours causing a street-wide path of destruction, it’s more likely that he won’t be recognized. Plus the Mayor wasn't so pleased with some of the property damage he caused.” Ingrid interjected, a teasing smile on her face.

“You think people would just learn to love the results. I’m partly responsible for returning the tea set back to the Solanki family!”

"Speaking of, I heard that Seth is out on bail already. They flew in a fancy lawyer from out of town. I'm sorry, Fillmore." Tehama graced him with a consoling look before signalling over the waiter to refill her drink.

"Doesn't matter. We'll get him next time. Everyone messes up eventually."

"We?" Karen asked, eyebrows raised. Ingrid merely nodded, ducking her head to hide her smile and Karen raised her iced tea in a toast, "Let all the criminals beware, it looks like the wonderkids are back."

**Author's Note:**

> As you could probably guess, I would be a horrible screenwriter because every action sequence would be off-camera. Then people would come back, dusting their hands, saying "Boy! Sure am glad that fight is over! Let's kiss now!" I doubt it'd make for a very good movie and I hope it didn't make for a truly horrible fic, my dear Yuletide recipient. I I ADORE the trope of the detective who can spot clues a mile away but has no idea of what's right under his nose (in this case, that his partner was pining for him), so I hope that you were able to believe in the strength and history of their relationship and the conclusion that I wrote.


End file.
